The Dog Days of August: A Conversation With a Collie

August 1998

The Dog Days of August: A Conversation With a Collie
By Bob Coskrey

The “Dog Days of August”—another of those baffling phrases that can easily be solved by referring to a dictionary or encyclopedia. And so, we discover that, according to Miriam-Webster, the dog days pertain to the days between early July and early September, when the Dog Star, Sirius, in the constellation, Canis Major, rises. The dictionary goes on to mention that these particular days, in the Northern Hemisphere, are usually characterized by hot, sultry weather.

Frankly, before reading this, I had always thought the term described those days in August when it was so hot that even man’s best, most highly spirited and physically active friend, the dog, found it difficult to function. It actually seemed to me that at this time of the year, I saw more and more dogs just lying around in 90 degree plus shaded areas, panting pathetically into pools of saliva.

Actually, I liked my answer better than the more astropolitically correct one, so to settle this weighty conundrum, I decided to do the canine equivalent of “going straight to the horse’s mouth”—(My God, there’s another one to look up): ask a dog what the “Dog Days of August” means? Obviously you must think my typewriter is missing a few keys, but don’t be too quick to judge. I happen to live next door to the worlds’ most intelligent dog, who just happens to talk. The fact that I always seem to have conversations with him on those occasions when I have run out of my medication is nothing more than pure coincidence.

His name is Polo, and he has actually taken the last name of his owners, the Stratus family, for legal purposes, although he is such a neighborhood luminary that he is widely referred to by his first name only, just like Madonna, Ali, or Lassie. He is, incidentally, a collie and was named after the famous explorer, Marco Polo, because of his proclivity for exploring large geographical areas.

I visited Polo one afternoon when his family was out, since he wants to keep his talking ability a secret—even from them. He figures it’s no risk talking to me, since anyone who’s read my articles realized I have a hard time differentiating fantasy from reality anyway.

I rang the bell, and Polo, seeing who it is, opens the door by first placing a piece of rubber matting on the doorknob, then grasping and turning it with his teeth. His clueless family thinks he keeps this thing as a toy.

Me: How’s it going, Polo?

Polo is looking good. His sable and white coat is clean and fluffy. He stays inside in the air conditioning during the hot weather, for the most part.

Polo: Great, Bob, what’s up with you? Your president still giving us dogs a bad name with each revelation on his bimbo list?

Me: Yeah, I guess so. Hey, I got a serious question for you, and I’d like to get it answered before your family gets back, ‘cause I need this information for an article.

With a long, pointed smirk on his face, Polo looks up at me.

Polo: Okay, Bob, anything I can do to jump start your plummeting writing career. Shoot.

Me: “The Dog Days of August,” what does that term mean? I know what the books say, but since it’s the “Dogs’ Days,” I thought it only logical that a dog would have the real answer, and since you’re unquestionably the smartest dog of all time, I’m asking you.

Polo: Thanks for the props, Bob. We dogs have been waiting hundreds of years for one of you to ask that questions. Of course, until I came along, there was no one to give you the answer.

Me: Props? Since when did you start talking hip-hop lingo?

Polo: Bob, my man, I am down with the multi-cultural thing. I listen to WPAL, watch BET, and was diggin’ on my homeboy, Sinbad, before “the Man” flipped him off the network. I even watch the Hispanic channel, muchacho. But, just excuse the slip, I promise to be wild and waspy from now on—pardon the oxy, moron. Just kidding, Bob.

Me: I’m sorry I asked. The answer to the question, please?”

Polo: It’s very simple. The Dog Days of August refers to the period of time in that month when the smart dogs reward themselves for the other eleven months of loyal, unswerving service to our so-called best friend, Man, or as my black brothers would say, the Man, although in our case, The Man is not limited to one race. We reward ourselves by just taking it easy and doing what we want to do, not what you want us to do—for just 31 days. Not all of us observe the custom. There are those whose backbones have been replaced by soupbones, who have completely sold out—Mr. Milkbonetoasts, or Uncle Lassies, we call them. Lassie, as you know, was a male who not only did anything that the creepy little “wuss” Timmy told him, but he did it under the guise of being female. Dogs, especially us Collies, will never live that down. It would be like if the black people found out Step ‘N Fetch It was a female to male transsexual. Excuse my emotions, Bob, but if you learn anything from this conversation, let it be, “don’t discuss Lassie around a Collie.”

Me: It’s a promise, Polo. The story?

Polo: Sorry. Anyway, like I was saying we just sort of take the month off. We lie around and cool it, as much as possible. Lucky ones, like me, get to say in air-conditioned houses, but even though you see many of us outside lying around in the shade or even going on boat rides with the family, you won’t see many of us chasing balls or fetching sticks out of the water.

Me (interrupting): You know, you’re right. Every day when I run, this little dog follows me for a while. I throw a stick, he picks it up and trots along beside me. Yesterday, when it was 95 degrees with equal humidity, I threw the stick, and he just looked at me like, “You must be completely insane. You’re the one surfing the heat wave. You fetch the stick. I’ll wait here.”

Polo: Yeah, that little white dog that lives down by the boat landing. That’s Barney. He’s one of us. You won’t see him doing a damned thing he doesn’t want to ‘til September first.

Me: You’re not concerned that the owners will just replace you with another “Uncle Lassie”?

Polo: Just because we bag it for a month? No way! Just like you people always say when one of us joins the land of the hidden bones, it’s just like losing a member of the family. And believe me, from what I’ve seen, although my family’s pretty cool, generally speaking, a lot of you other homo sapiens could use some fresh replacements.

Me: So you think dogs are an integral part of man’s life, then?

Polo: Sure, it’s the unconditional love then. No matter how crappy you treat us, we’re always there jumping up and down and licking your often less than attractive faces (even by dog standards), when you come home every day, just like you’ve been gone a couple of years. Most of you guys have no capacity for the unconditional love thing. It’s just one long orgy of retribution for rewards. We have a purpose; we have a job to do; we fill a humanistic void in your greedy little lives.

Me: Hey, I don’t need a lecture from a sanctimonious fecal forager, and besides, I don’t even have a dog.

Polo (grinning with the recognition that he’d hit a nerve): Oh, for God’s sake, calm down, Bob. I’m not chastising you personally. But you sure could use a dog, if you get my drift. And you know damn well I don’t practice fecal foraging, although I won’t deny that some of my lower socio-economic class brothers do. But I’ve seen much worse things on “The Jerry Springer Show,” which incidentally, all of us canines love to watch. We call it the “Great Equalizer”—whenever we’ve had a particularly rotten day of being screamed at by our owners.

Me: Okay, I am sorry I lost my temper. Let’s get back to the subject of my article.

Polo: Well, there isn’t a lot more to say about it, really. The Dog Days of August simply give us a hard earned respite from a dog’s life, which the dictionary will tell you is a reference to a miserable, drab existence. And to further accentuate this dreary existence, there’s the phrase “work like a dog.” We dogs have it tough eleven months out of the year performing and fetching, running and siccing, taking orders, non-stop, do-this, do-that, or accusatorially, did you do this or do that, or you’re a bad dog (incidentally, there’s no such thing as a bad dog, there are just bad owners, and dogs don’t kill cats, owners without fences do). So it only seemed appropriate to select August, the time of the hottest, most enervating weather, as our holiday. But, while I’ve got your attention, Bob (wake up, Bob), let me make a few observations that might inject more understanding and harmony in the dog/owner relationship.

1. We hate riding in the backs of pickup trucks. It’s totally unsafe, not to mention low class.
2. Although a dog is man’s best friend (with the TV remote control in second place and closing fast), man is not a dog’s best friend. I mean, you own us. Did slaves consider their masters their best friends? You have completely domesticated us, sometimes to absurd extremes, e.g. the French poodle, so we are now totally dependent on you. Even cats can live on their own. We would starve to death. That’s why we hate them, but that’s another article.
3. We are the ones who named Wednesday “hump day,” and it’s got nothing to do with getting over the hump of the middle of the week. By the way, when we mount your legs, we don’t really enjoy it, it’s just a joke. We know it annoys and embarrasses you guys, so we always plan to do it at the most inappropriate social occasions. Only now we just do it on Wednesdays. It just makes it a bit more special, I guess you could say.
4. We want car or truck seatbelts just like humans. We are family members, so give us some protection. And we don’t like riding in your laps. If you wrekc, and you frequently do, we’ll just be crushed between your obese bodies and the steering wheel, oftentimes having a beer can wedged into our innocent bodies.
5. Yes, we love to stick our heads out of car windows, but not because of the wind blowing in our face exactly. It’s mainly because, as you know, we are blessed, perhaps, cursed, with an extraordinary sense of smell—and frankly, a lot of you people reek like something awful.
6. We’re sick and tired of taking the rap for your flatulence. At the suggestion of some of our pointer brothers, starting very soon, whenever this extremely embarrassing situation occurs, the dog will point to the guilty party.
7. The last: Whenever you see any of us tongue washing our private areas in public, give us a whack with the rolled up newspaper. Those dogs are perverts and exhibitionists of the worst kind, and what they’re doing is not even vaguely connected with self-cleansing, and serves only to give us mainstream canines a bad name, and make Howard Stern envious.

There, Bob, I think I’ve answered your question, plus giving you some information to perk up your article.

Me: Thanks, Polo, I’ve really learned a lot about dogs today, although I have to say, you seem to have a bit of a chip on your shoulder.

Polo (resignedly): Bob, you just don’t get it, do you? But then, after all, you’re only human. Why don’t you just read my new book that’s coming out in the spring, published by Random Doghouse, “Timmy’s in the Well and I Don’t Care, or Lassie’s Revenge.”

I need not add anything else, only that Polo and I, in spite of everything, are good friends.